08:10 a.m. - At Floor Office, Dawnspire
Snow clung to the window like a thin sheet of salt. The factory yard was quiet except for the sound of boots and breath. Inside, the press line hummed. Ink breathed its bitter smell into the warm air. It was a simple rhythm: lift, set, stamp. The kind of steady work that made a room feel honest.
Ryan stood at the second station with a tray of brass tags and paper slips. The day slip pinned at his belt read "Elric Mercer — Journeyman — Stamping." He had written it in a neat hand. He had signed it without his name.
(Keep small. Keep steady. You asked for the quiet. Now live inside it.)
Aidan walked the line with a quick, sure step, checking hands and eyes the way a good floor boss does when time matters more than talk. He wore his dark wool vest and the same calm. His ledger sat under his arm like a rule.
Aidan (to workers): "Shift two, eyes on the press. If a jar chips, stop the line. We fix it then we move."
His voice made the line settle. The apprentices—one little sister with ink on her sleeve and one little brother with a red scarf—looked taller when he spoke. The little sister wiped a window clear with her sleeve and peered at the street like she was watching a parade that had not arrived yet.
Ryan pressed the stamp into the pad. It made a neat click. He placed the mark on the slip and slid it to the stack. The sound of metal and paper felt like someone breathing calmly nearby.
(You do not have to be the face. You can be hands. Hands are safe.)
The guard at the gate shouted something to a cart. A boy's voice answered, bright and small in the cold. Beyond the roofs, the Castle of Aurelthorn showed a line of pale stone in the winter light, like a horn held sideways against the sky.
Aidan (passes Ryan, a nod): "Keep those lines clean."
Ryan (without looking up): "Yes, master."
Aidan didn't pause. He didn't recognize the voice. He didn't need to. He had a floor to run.
Sariel stood at the office door with a clipboard—ink lines, tidy letters, no nonsense. Her eyes measured and moved on. She marked a box with a crisp tick that sounded like a little hammer striking metal.
Sariel (flat): "Day slips matched to hands. Two‑person sign on outgoing crates. Inspector checks at first bell tomorrow."
Ryan put the next tag aside. It had smeared. His thumb had rested wrong.
(Stop thinking about the House. Stop thinking about the fire. Think about the stamp.)
On the street, a hawker's cry cut the morning air from the Dawnspire market lane.
Broadsheet Seller (calling): "News! Lord Draemyr strikes! Twenty thousand Drakensvale fall! Umbrathorax sighted—cause unknown! General Mersha judged by Aurelthorn! Lyscia in chains! Seraphina lost!"
The little sister at the window stiffened. Ink left a thumbprint on the glass where she pressed her hand.
Apprentice, little sister (whisper): "Did he say… Umbrathorax?"
Aidan (without turning): "Do your work. News comes to those who finish the hour."
The seller's voice moved along the lane. Left and away. The Temple bell chimed one thin note and then kept its peace.
Ryan set the stamp down. It tilted and made a little smudge.
(That is not right. That is not the world I remember. In my world, the Umbrathorax moved like a storm, but I called it. In this world, it came without me—or not at all. People lived who should have died. Others died who should have lived.)
He swallowed hard and set the next slip under his hand. The press did its neat little kiss and moved on.
Aidan (to Sariel): "Stamp the sheet. If the float is over two days, you call me. No exceptions."
Sariel (nods): "Stamping."
Snow drifted past the glass in small, thin pieces, like someone shaking dust from an old cloak. The smell of oil. The push of work. All of it made a small shell around his head so the outside would stop knocking.
At the half bell, Aidan waved a hand.
Aidan (short): "Ten‑minute break. Water. No gossip at the line."
Ryan wiped his hands on a rag and slid out the side door with the others. The yard was just a patch of hard dirt and thin snow, but the air felt like drinking cold water after a long walk. The broadsheet seller had set his stack on the low wall by the gate. A few men crowded him. Aidan let them, so long as they stood outside the line of work.
Broadsheet Seller (cheerful, breath steaming): "Fresh ink! Dawnspire Press! Aurelthorn triumph! Court record inside!"
Ryan stepped up. He kept his head low and his hood up. He slid a coin onto the stack.
Broadsheet Seller (counts coin): "Thank you, sir. Good day to you."
Ryan took the top sheet and opened it with care. The ink caught the light. The letters were large to be read by men with bad eyes. At the top:
DRAEMYR'S HAND JUDGES THE DAWN — DRAKEN HOST BROKEN — UMBRATHORAX SIGHTED, CAUSE UNKNOWN — GENERAL MERSHA EXECUTED — GENERAL LYSCIA CAPTURED — GENERAL SERAPHINA UNACCOUNTED — GENERAL VARRIK ESCAPES THE NET
His chest went tight.
(Shit.)
He read the smaller lines. They spoke of two days of fog and blood. They spoke of fire arcs and shield walls. They spoke of a bladed man at the center who cut like a saw through wet oak. They spoke of a shadow shape sliding through the rear lines at false dawn, not on anyone's side, here and gone.
They did not speak of a roar rolled by a laptop. They did not speak of a shout from a stranger on a village wall.
They spoke of Eryndral Village burned. They spoke of "relief tents raised below the south wall of Dawnspire—families listed; aid rations posted." They spoke of "names to be checked at the South Granary Yard." They did not speak of caravans to Frosthaven.
They did not speak of Jonas. They did not speak of a boy's small, stiff hand in the snow. They did not speak of a mother's shawl.
Ryan put a hand on the iron rail to keep himself still.
(You removed your own face from the square. And the square rearranged the past like a man tidying a table. Maybe the beast never came for my voice. Maybe the field itself called it. Maybe my roar belongs to a world that is not this one anymore.)
The paper pressed cold into his fingers. He folded it with care and tucked it inside his tunic. He could hear his breath. He tried to make it slow.
The little sister's face was at the window again. She was looking at him. No—she was looking at the broadsheet, her mouth small, eyes wide.
Apprentice, little sister (soft): "Will they come here?"
Ryan (low, gentle): "If they do, we will have work to make things ready. Work helps."
Aidan's eyes moved from the crowd to the clock to the line. He clapped once like a man calling a dog from a porch.
Aidan (calming): "We run checks and we do them again. Breathe. We fix, then we ship."
He looked at Ryan—no, at Elric—and gave a curt nod. "Break's done" without saying it.
Ryan put the broadsheet inside his bag like he was hiding a knife and went back to the press.
(You made a choice. You asked the world to look away when it tried to make you a spectacle. The world looked away from more than just you.)
The day moved again. The hum returned. The apprentices—little brother and little sister—ran the rollers, and the older men carried crates. Sariel counted. Aidan watched. Ryan stamped.
At noon, the bell rang. Aidan blew on his hands and looked down the line.
Aidan (short): "Lunch. Back at first strike."
He stepped toward Ryan. His gaze took in the neat pile, the smudges that had been corrected, the clean tray.
Aidan (measured): "Decent hands."
Ryan (plain): "Thank you."
Aidan (to Ryan): "You want more than stamping, you show me a log that is clean for a week. Then we see if you can read a line and check a jar."
Ryan (nods): "I can do that."
Aidan's eyes flicked to the office.
Aidan (reports): "I go to the Guild court after lunch. Monopoly noise and debt talk. I will bring back a stamp that says we stand."
Ryan's heart jolted.
(He went… for me. For the company that was mine everywhere except on paper. For a name he does not know. You owe him more than this false name and a good day's work.)
Ryan (quiet): "Good luck."
Aidan gave that half‑smile he had when a plan was numbers that added up.
Aidan (decisive): "We do the math, not the rumor."
He went out through the gate with two clerks and a file of papers under his arm. Sariel took over the floor with the same cold care she used on ledgers.
Sariel (crisp): "Eat. Then hands back at the line."
Ryan ate a heel of bread and a thin slice of cheese. He could not feel the cold. Safe from Cold still held like a quiet hand over his skin. Dawnspire smelled of coal and wet leather and the faint spice of the Temple's incense when the wind shifted.
He slipped into the side street toward the South Gate. There, a long board had been set up under a canvas awning beside the granary yard. Names in chalk. Marks and notes in the clerk's small hand. People pressed but did not shove. A guard with a city badge kept order with a soft voice and a hard jaw.
City Clerk (calling): !(Relief lists posted at the South Granary Yard! Kin names here! Ration passes given by order—line forms to the left!)
People lifted their heads at the call. Some moved faster. Some slowed as if the words had weight and they had to carry them with care. A big sister lifted a little brother so he could read a line that might be their mother's. It was not. He sagged heavy in her arms and she laughed a little to keep him from crying for the wrong reason.
Ryan waited until noise moved to the left and then stepped in like a man checking for himself and no one else.
He read. His eyes moved without his permission.
Dawnstar, Selene — placed in Dawnspire, South Granary Yard tents. Aelric — with mother. Jonas — unknown. Last seen near the North Road.
He put his hand on the wood like a man steadying himself when a cart lurches.
(Unknown is a door. Unknown means not dead. Unknown means not alive. Unknown means work.)
He stepped back. A merchant in a clean coat pushed up and then saw children and made himself small. Someone laughed under their breath. The air felt warmer for that little piece of grace.
Two men near the steps talked low.
Citizen (hushed): "They say a shadow slid through the rear. Not ours. Not theirs. Men fell on both sides like wheat."
Another Citizen (skeptical): "War‑horns and witch‑fire call bad luck. The forest throws what we deserve."
Ryan watched the words hang in the winter light like a knife hung on a nail: Umbrathorax—sighted, cause unknown. Belmara stirring in the south. Three banners in the wind.
(Three kingdoms. A triangle is a strong shape. It cuts in all directions. If Belmara pushes Aurelthorn while Drakensvale bleeds, the map becomes a story with bad endings.)
He eased back into the alley and took the lane to the side door of Technologia. The floor smell met him—oil, iron, ink, a little heat that felt like bread.
Sariel tracked him with a look that took his measure and then put him somewhere on a neat shelf.
Sariel (direct): "Back on time?"
Ryan (polite): "Yes."
Sariel (ticks a box): "Good."
She went back to her ledger. The apprentices at the rollers sang a rude song under their breath and then hushed when Aidan's shadow fell across the wall in their minds. Aidan was not yet back from court, but the thought of him kept the line honest.
Ryan returned to the second station. He set the stamp and found the clean rhythm again. His mind would not follow. It kept going to the chalk board and the single word "Unknown" like a moth to a cold flame.
(Jonas. Unknown. That is a mercy and a cruelty at once.)
He felt the ache rise and did what he had learned to do with ache. He put his eyes on a thing he could fix. A tag with a burr. A stack that leaned. A rag that needed a rinse. The small world of his hands shrank the big world into something that did not crush his chest.
At second bell, the gate swung open and Aidan stepped through with a shape like victory in his stride. Snow clung to his boots. A boy—little brother—ran ahead with a folded paper and nearly tumbled, caught himself, then thrust the sheet at Sariel like it was a banner.
Aidan stopped at the office door and handed Sariel a stamped page. She read it and let out what was, for her, a big thing—a tiny sigh that let a line of worry leave her face.
Aidan (reports): "Case closed. Monopoly noise tossed. Debt settled by schedule. We stand."
Sariel (short): "Good."
Aidan set the court seal on the corner of the desk with a firm tap, as if he were pinning down a fly.
Aidan (to Sariel): "Owner of Dawnspire floor: Master Aidan Thorne. Guarantor: Murdock. Frosthaven branch—Guild recognizes the same. Lab lot at Frosthaven, South Mills Lane: personal property, not company. No claim from Guild. No lien. Paper says it's 'Ryan Mercer.'"
Sariel (dry): "A ghost pays taxes better than men."
Aidan's mouth twitched.
Aidan (satisfied): "Pens ship tomorrow. Crossbows hit prototype five. We need two extra hands for stamping."
He lifted his head and raised his voice enough for the line.
Aidan (to workers): "Good work. Pay at sunset. Day slips signed at the desk. If your name is not right, speak now."
Ryan's hands wanted to clap. He didn't. He kept them on the stamp and let the warmth of a small win sit in him.
(He held the company for me. He held it for all of us. He does not know it, and it does not matter. The work is what matters.)
The sun tilted toward late and turned the Castle stone to old brass. The day ended. People washed hands. Someone laughed and coughed. The little sister wiped the window one last time and then fell asleep against a crate for two breaths before her big sister came to pull her away by the hand.
Ryan slung his bag over his shoulder and drifted out through the gate like any other tired man. Snowball—the pale antlered beast the city folks called Snowball—stood patient by the wall, steam puffing from his nostrils in slow clouds. His antlers took the last light and held it like frost.
Snowball nosed Ryan's shoulder and then licked his cheek until the cold made the breath in his head sound loud.
Ryan (to Snowball, under his breath): "Thank you."
He found a quiet bench near the rope‑walk, half‑hidden by a stack of coils and a tarp. The market noise hung soft and low beyond, like a sea two streets away. He took out the broadsheet. He took out the notebook the Space House allowed to follow him—the Silent Witness Rule. A thin, plain thing with a wooden cover and a strip of leather to keep it shut.
He opened it. His own neat hand looked back at him from the page. It spoke of things the world had chosen to forget.
He read: "Eryndral. Fog. Roars. Umbrathorax. Aidan's ledger like a rope. Jonas—dead."
He turned a page.
He read: "Temple. Inquisition. Pope Thaddeus. Cassian. The pop and the wet. Safe from fire. Safe from spotlight."
He set the broadsheet beside his notes. Two worlds. Two truths. One man.
He took a bit of charcoal and drew a small line between "Eryndral—saved" and "Eryndral—razed." He wrote a single word above the line: "Mandate."
He spoke aloud. It made the air feel less crowded.
Ryan (soft, to himself): "Okay. You chose Safe from Fire and Safe from Spotlight. Fire saves your skin. Spotlight saves your plans. But the way it works is not clean. It does not put a filter on a lens. It edits the script."
He made himself say what the edit had cut.
Ryan (gentle): "Maybe Jonas did not die. Maybe he never had to take a blow for me because I was not there. Maybe he died anyway. Maybe he lived. I do not know."
He laughed once. It sounded wrong in the cold.
Ryan (dry): "If a cosmic programmer is out there, he needs better QA."
He poured a bit of water from his flask into a tin cup and breathed on it like it was tea. The heat in his hands was pretend. It felt honest anyway.
He thought of Gin, with his tight sleeves and his jaw like stone. He thought of Barden, the big quiet with the shield. He thought of Lyss, who moved like smoke and had a voice like a small knife that cut without being seen.
(Do those bastards still live in this world? Or did the edit cut them too? I do not want to know. If they walk into the light of my day again, I will find a door in the floor.)
He closed his eyes for three breaths and then opened them and made a list.
— Keep job under Elric. Clean logs. Learn names. — Help Aidan without showing my face. Quiet fixes. — Send word to Dawnspire Relief Desk. Ask without noise. — If Jonas lives—help without making a stage. If he is gone—help his own, quiet. — Do not chase ghosts. Do not tease priests. Build non‑lethal first.
A runner—little brother, long legs, torn shoes—hesitated near the rope‑walk and then came closer when he saw Ryan's hand lift.
Runner, little brother (hopeful): "Sir—sir—do you have a note? I take them for a coin. I run fast. I do not read, but I do not cheat."
Ryan wrote a plain message in a hand any clerk could read.
To: Dawnspire Relief Desk — South Granary Yard From: E. Mercer, worker at Technologia, Dawnspire Subject: Quiet help offer — soap, warm drinks, simple tools
If Selene Dawnstar and child Aelric are listed, please send a note back with this runner. I can bring soap and warm drink money at end of day, no cost. I do not ask for thanks. I only ask for a name to carry.
— E. Mercer
He folded the note. He sealed it with a thumb and a little wax and stamped it with a tiny coin the House had let follow across. It made a mark of no one's heraldry. It made a mark of a circle that meant nothing and everything at once.
He put two copper in the boy's palm.
Ryan (kind): "Take this to the Relief Desk at the South Granary Yard. Give it to the woman with the blue scarf. She will frown and then thank you. Ask for a stamp that says you delivered it. Bring it back. Two now. Two when you return."
The boy's eyes widened. He took the note as if it might break in his hands if he was not careful.
Runner, little brother (grinning): "Yes, sir!"
He ran. His feet hit the frozen street like hands clapping.
Ryan watched until the boy was lost between barrels and a brace of geese. Snowball blew a warm breath against Ryan's shoulder and then stood still like a slow god set to guard a small bench.
(You cannot tell this world what to be. You can make it kinder in small, blunt ways.)
A bell rang in the distance. Not a Temple bell. A city bell. It had a crack in it that made the note a little ugly and a little dear.
From the market, the seller began again with a new stack.
Broadsheet Seller (calling): "Belmara moves! Rumor says Veilshadow stirs a host! Drakensvale bleeds! Aurelthorn called to muster at the Southern Border forts! Three banners! Three roads to ruin!"
People argued in soft voices: who owed grain, who owed sons, who owed silence. An old man in a faded cloak put his hand flat on the Castle wall and closed his eyes like he was listening for an answer in stone.
Ryan did not go to the Temple. He did not go to the Castle. He went back to the floor door, to the smell of oil and warm iron. Sariel was counting at her desk with the tight patience of someone who liked the world best when it could be divided by lines. He waited until she finished a column and then spoke.
Ryan (calm): "I can work late, if you want the press face cleaned."
Sariel looked up. She took him in as if measuring a jar for cracks.
Sariel (short): "Clean it. Use the fine grit. No scratches."
Ryan nodded. He found a bench, pulled a rag toward him, and began to clean the press plate until it gleamed like a small, honest moon. His mind tried to slip away to the South Granary Yard where a woman might lift a chalk and write "received" on a scrap of wood. He kept his mind pinned to the shine instead.
The door creaked once. Aidan leaned against the post with a look like a man who had just wrestled a ledger and won, but still felt the strain in his shoulders.
Aidan (quiet, to Ryan): "Court is a show with paper instead of fire. We stood. Good hands today."
Ryan (plain): "Thank you."
Aidan's eyes moved, quick and neat, to the cleaned plate and then back.
Aidan (measured): "You want a better post, you bring me three things you made better without being asked. Then we talk."
Ryan (small smile): "I can do that."
Aidan set a folded strip of paper on the bench without fuss. His handwriting was clean and blunt.
Aidan (short): "Before first light. Forge by the rope‑walk. Day slip and three fixes. Do not bring a crowd."
He did not wait for an answer. He pushed off the post and went down the line to speak to the little brother at the rollers in the tone of a big brother who knows work is how boys get taller.
When the lamp light grew steady and the snow eased, Ryan put the polished plate back and wiped his hands. He did not try to run the world in his head. He set two simple rules there instead.
Ryan (to himself): "Never make a thing you cannot explain in daylight. Build non‑lethal first. Deterrence over escalation."
He breathed out. The air in the shop tasted like old paper and iron.
His mind snagged once more on a name that would not stop being a question.
(Jonas. Unknown.)
He let the air go out of him like a man setting a heavy thing on the floor with care.
(If we meet again, I will look him in the eye. I will keep my voice small. I will not make it a story. If we do not, I will still feed those he loved. That is how you carry the coin of forgiveness when someone drops it in your hand and walks away.)
He wiped the bench clean and set the rag to dry. He checked the door bolt. He tipped his head toward Sariel.
Ryan (polite): "Good night."
Sariel (without looking up): "Do not be late."
He stepped into the lane. Snow made the world soft. The city breathed like a sleeping thing that had done no harm. Outside that sleep, the war shifted in lines no man could see—Belmara's shadow, Drakensvale's bleed, Aurelthorn's muster, and somewhere in the forest, a beast that moved like a rumor through trees it did not love. Inside the small circle of his walk, Ryan kept to his rules: no spectacle, no lies, no shortcuts. He thought of peace like a tool on a shelf—something you reached for when the work called for it and not one second before. He kept his hands busy.
(We keep what we can.)